


She’s A Rebel

by defcontwo, Dorasolo



Series: We Get By [2]
Category: Ant-Man (Movies), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU: We Get By, Civil War Team Captain America, F/F, F/M, POV Multiple, This AU sounds like canon!, is this a double date?, maybe it’s a heist
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:20:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26333290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/defcontwo/pseuds/defcontwo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorasolo/pseuds/Dorasolo
Summary: Sharon and Natasha just want to go on vacation but as usual, Nazis ruin everything. They wind up in Kentucky, with Hope Van Dyne and Scott Lang in tow, trying to keep a lid on a very small, very big problem. A bug problem, if you will.A continuation of the Civil War AU! Set in the We Get By-verse. Sharon/Nat and Scott/Hope centric.
Relationships: Scott Lang/Hope Van Dyne, Sharon Carter/Natasha Romanov
Series: We Get By [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2187546
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	She’s A Rebel

This mission was supposed to be easy. Two days, maybe three days tops, and then Sharon would get to enjoy a glorious Greek island vacation with her maybe-girlfriend. 

She’s been looking forward to it all month; Sharon has _plans_ for that vacation. Eating so much feta that she runs out of lactaid, for one. Drinking wine. Making out on the beach. Roleplaying as the bored daughter of a British governor with Natasha as the feared pirate captain who sweeps Sharon off her feet. You know, normal vacation stuff. 

But then these Nazis fuckers had to go and get interesting. Sharon’s been watching them for three days from a van across the street from their abandoned shopfront turned White Supremacist Clubhouse in bumfuck Kentucky. At first, it all seemed boring and usual. Racist, shitty anti-Semitic assholes swapping guns and talking about big plans that they could never get away with. It’s all standard fare for Harlan County and nothing to get upset about. 

Then a slick guy in a suit starts showing up talking about a shipment like every Carpetbagger stereotype under the sun, so Sharon mentally puts the vacation on hold for a few more days just to see what’s up. No one like that shows up in rural Kentucky without some kind of shit hidden up their sleeve. 

Sharon figures that she’s already made a habit out of being late to everything; Natasha’s used to it by now. 

Then the shipment comes in. Sharon shrugs on a heavy brown leather bomber jacket to help conceal the gun strapped to her back, and slips out of her hiding spot to sneak closer. She mentally argues with herself, trying to guess what the shipment is. It’s not gonna be guns — these guys already walk around looking like they robbed a Walmart. She wants to get eyes on it, just to be sure. 

Sharon slips through the restaurant next door and out the back, before cracking open the backdoor of the Nazi Clubhouse. She pads softly towards the sound of voices, squeezing herself between two fully stocked shelves that keep her hidden from view. 

She’s expecting bombs, mostly, or maybe some C4. But then the slick Carpetbagger in the suit cracks open the crate with a crowbar, revealing the contents of the shipment with a flourish. 

Sharon was wrong. It’s not some fucking C4. 

It’s a goddamn Yellowjacket suit. Sharon thought those suits died with Darren Cross back in 2015, but apparently not so much. 

“Fuck,” Sharon mutters to herself. She’s gonna have to kiss the Greek island life goodbye for now. She thumbs out a quick coded message to Nat because there’s fifteen assholes in there with some tech that she’s sure they won’t know how to control. 

Something tells her that with a suit like that around, there’s a bigger plan in play than the small time bullshit she’s been overhearing for the past few days. 

They’re gonna want some help. 

~~

Natasha paces the same tread into the old wooden floors of her favorite Athens safe house. She checks and re-checks the gun that she’s holding, the gun at her hip, and the knife strapped to her boot.

Sharon was supposed to meet her here three days ago. They were going to spend a day eating olives and drinking wine and making out on the patio, and then they were going to set out on a mission that Sharon definitely isn’t allowed to be on as an agent of the CIA, but it was a small favor for Maria, so of course they were gonna go.

Nat doesn’t worry, at first; Sharon can take care of herself and also, she’s almost always a little late to their rendezvous and anyways, this is new, this thing between them. Sharon doesn’t tell her everything; Natasha would never expect her to.

The only thing that Natasha knows about Sharon’s latest CIA mission is that it involved a spectacularly stupid and underfunded HYDRA off-shoot that was proving surprisingly hard to stomp out. That’s still child's play, compared to everything else.

So, fine. Natasha can give her a grace period of about twenty-four hours.

And then those twenty-four hours are up and the clock keeps ticking and here she is, pacing, when one of her burner phones dings with a message and Nat is halfway across the floor before she realizes it. She flips open the old creaky Motorola, taking in the message that just came in from a contact that’s just marked ‘S.’

_SOS, H trying to become the next yellow Bug Man_

“Fuck,” Natasha says, loud enough to startle a pigeon that had taken up residence on her patio. “Fuck.”

She thinks about her tiny friend in a brand new flying insect suit, and then plucks her own cell-phone from her back pocket, swiping it open and frantically scrolling until she reaches the contact marked ‘Hope Van Dyne.’ She presses the call button.

“Hi, Wasp? It’s Black Widow. I need your help.”

~~

Not again! She lands abruptly, left blaster vambrace smoking, an acrid, electrical smell rising into the air. Hurriedly, Hope Van Dyne flings the offensive armor off onto the ground in the backyard and rubs at her arm, wincing. That fucking _hurt._

As a precaution, she flings the other vambrace off onto the ground and wishes it would join its brethren in hell. An angry red welt rises on her left arm and she curses again, as failure isn’t something she enjoys. Hope indulges in a few more heavy curses, but she looks up when the shadow over her announces that she’s no longer alone in the backyard.

“Hashtag, Wasp Problems,” Scott Lang says glibly, with a cat-ate-the-canary smirk. “Good thing I don’t have to deal with blasters or blaster burn.” 

She smirks right back. “Because Hank said you can’t be trusted with firepower,” she reminds him, trying not to be too gleeful. 

“Touché,” Scott says, no doubt opening his mouth to let loose his now familiar gripe about how Hank should try harder to trust him with weapons, but he gets distracted by the sour smoke instead. He makes a face and sighs. “Pass over the blaster, let me take a look at the wiring again.” 

She hands it over, comfortable in the knowledge that he’s better than Hank at making the electronics for the blasters work, even if Hank won’t modify the ant suit for Scott. Hope lets herself watch him as he puts on his glasses and messes with a screwdriver for a few minutes. She does not watch because he needs a babysitter, but because he’s kind of sexy in his reading glasses. She debates telling him so. 

“Maybe we should take this to the lab,” he suggests, oblivious to her thoughts, standing up and holding out a hand for her to join him. Hope lets Scott pull her up to a standing position and she kisses him chastely on the lips. 

“What was that for?” Scott looks at her softly, curiously, his warmth for her obvious. 

“I don’t know,” she teases, “maybe just for being here to fix my blaster.”

“Quit that, or get a room,” Hank calls from the back door, “for crying out loud, you’re at work. You’re on my dime.” 

Scott rolls his eyes at Hope. “He has to know it’s not that funny when he does that anymore, right? We’ve been together a long time.” 

Hope threads her fingers through Scott’s, shaking her head. “Nope. He’s found his one joke, and he’s going to get his money worth. Let’s go to the lab and finish up for today. We promised Sam a status report on my suit.” 

But when she gets to her phone, Hope has a much more interesting message left in her voicemail. 

She waves a hand at Scott and Hank before switching to speaker and pressing play on Natasha’s voicemail. 

It’s short, to the point, and provides zero context for what Natasha needs help with. 

“But what does this mean?” Scott and Hank frown at the phone, twin looks of worry on their faces.

Hope rolls her eyes. “I’ll have to call her to find out,” she chides gently, and at their eagerness to know, she sighs. “And I guess I’ll do that right now.” 

It’s hard to make a call with an audience, and it’s probably rude to dodge both Scott and Hank, who are hovering impatiently. Nothing good ever happens when the two of them are on the same page, but she forces herself to hit the speaker button again and make the call anyway. 

The phone rings, and Natasha answers a beat later. 

“Van Dyne,” Natasha’s voice comes through sharp and clear. “We’ve got a problem. HYDRA has a Yellowjacket.” 

“What? How? I saw that fucking guy die in the Quantum Realm!” Scott’s eyebrows climb upwards, his incredulity only matched by Hank’s frown, which cuts deep lines into his face. 

“Ms. Romanoff, do you mean the plans for a suit or an actual suit?” Hope has to move the phone from Hank’s attempt to grab it off of the kitchen counter. 

“Hello Doctor Pym,” Natasha says, in an indulgent tone that lets Hope know that she probably wants to make fun of him. “I got a message from an associate earlier today. Her message was cryptic and slim on details, but I don’t think she would’ve called in for help if they were still in the planning stages. I think this is def con murder bug over here.” 

“One of Darren’s cases must have gotten out before we trashed the place,” Hope groans. “HYDRA must have gotten it.” 

“They’re still going to have to get somebody to go inside of it and test it out,” Scott starts hopefully, his voice just a little too bright to be honest about his feelings, “so maybe we have some time to sort this out before it’s too serious.” 

Hank scoffs. “Don’t be so sure. You might be surprised to learn about the things you can get ex-cons to do,” he grumbles, with a tiny wink at Hope. 

“Touché,” Scott says again, tipping an imaginary hat, and Hope is beginning to regret buying him that Word-A-Day calendar for his birthday. 

“We can get into the story about your meet-cute later,” Natasha says impatiently. There’s a tension in her voice that Hope doesn’t ever remember hearing before, no matter how fucked up things got over the Accords. “I don’t want to leave my associate out there solo anymore. I cross-checked some intel with Steve, there’s a lot of moving HYDRA parts headed her way.” 

Hope’s brow furrows, as she mouths the word ‘associate’ at Scott. Scott eyeballs her and shrugs, then mimes looking through a detective’s eyeglass. There’s definitely a piece of the puzzle missing; Natasha’s worried tone does not at all match the word ‘associate.’

“You both have flights to Lexington. Grab your baseball hats and don’t forget to use your fake names, kids,” Natasha orders, slipping back into that cool, faintly mocking tone that Hope has come to know so well. It’s oddly comforting. “I’ll see you in 24 hours.” 

“Wait! Which fake names? The names from before? New names? I _hate_ this part,” Scott says frantically. “Hello?” 

“She hung up,” Hank says pointedly, taking a breath to pull off his glasses and make a show of cleaning them on the edge of his shirt. “I don’t blame her. I hang up on you all of the time.” 

“Ha ha,” Scott grumbles, frowning at Hank. “Maybe that would be true if I ever called you, but I don’t. I let Hope do it, thank you very much.”

“Boys,” Hope chides, a flare of annoyance hearing her words. “This isn’t the time. We need to get ready to go, and Hank, I’m going to need you to find a schematic for a Yellowjacket suit from the Pym files while we’re in the air.”

“Truce,” Scott offers, holding out his hand to Hank with exaggerated remorse. 

Hank sniffs, considering. “This wasn’t even an argument, but I forgive you.” 

“Gee thanks,” Scott says sarcastically, rolling his eyes in exasperation at Hope. Hope wrinkles her nose, silently begging him with her eyes not to keep going with Hank. Scott dips his chin in a small nod, giving her the hint of a crooked smile before he thankfully starts heading for the door. “Let’s go, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, remember us? *finger guns*


End file.
